


The American Avengers

by CtheGuitarman



Series: The 1920s Avengers [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Gangster, Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 01:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2369786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CtheGuitarman/pseuds/CtheGuitarman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the 1920s. America is experiencing a time of unmatched prosperity. But when a mysterious man named Loki arrives Major Fury of the new SHIELD Organisation must act quickly to prevent disaster. (Gangster AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> AN:- There is a post on Tumblr featuring the cast of the Avengers in other roles where they are dressed in 1920s period costumes. Someone suggested writing a gangster AU based on this post. So here is the gangster AU of the Avengers.

Through the cold grey dawn of Massachusetts a Ford Model A chugged in the night. Wind howled all about the car, threatening to push it off the road. It kept up a constant speed though, the carburettor backfiring a couple of times as it chugged down the potholed road. An uncommon sight at nearly three quarters to four on a Friday night.

The Ford finally ground to a halt outside an isolated telephone exchange and the back door opened. Out of the car a tall man unfolded his long limbs, glancing left and right as he set a black hat down on his bald head. His suit was the same dark black, a neat waistcoat buttoned beneath and a black tie in a simple half-Windsor. Two things distinguished him from any other gentleman you would see stepping from a car in a fine suit. The first was the dark colour of his skin, and the second was the eyepatch set over a puckered scar. He sported a neatly trimmed moustache and thin goatee with the faintest hint of graying hair to it.

The man stepped from the car and walked up to the telephone exchange, stepping through the door and closing it behind him. He marched across the empty room to a particular bank of switches. He flipped them on in sequence and a door beside the machines clicked open. The man slid through to a confined staircase, which he descended quickly to the bottom, some two stories below. At the bottom of the steps was another man in a suit.

This man was so nondescript as to be invisible, even when spoken to one on one. He had a plain face that could have blended in to any crowd in any city in America. His haircut a short back and sides, combed firmly over on the left, his suit grey, no waistcoat, with a grey tie and white shirt. He saluted as the black man came towards him.

“Major Fury.”

Fury returned the salute. “How bad is it?”

“That's the problem, sir. We don't know.”

The man in grey opened the door behind him and they came out into a wide open grey room, dozens of telephone banks along the walls with an army of operators. At plain oak desks men pored over decryption machines, or filed through pages of notes in a dozen languages. A harried looking man in a crumpled blue shirt was pacing between various desks, grabbing papers at random and looking even more concerned as he read the reports.

The man in grey nodded to him. “Dr. Selvig picked up a communication from Europe four hours ago.”

“Any chance of narrowing that down?”

“Working on it. Drop’s definitely going to happen here.”

“How long to get non-essential personnel out?”

A woman dressed in a plain skirt and white shirt came to join them. “Campus should be clear in the next half hour,” she reported.

“Do better.”

She nodded, but stayed with the men. “Sir, evacuation may be futile. We don’t know what’s about to be dropped.”

Fury ignored the point. “I need you to make sure that Phase 2 is secured.”

The man in grey frowned. “Sir, is that really a priority right now?”

Fury turned to him with a frown. “Until such time as the world ends, we will act as though it intends to spin on.” He watched Selvig pace the room before turning back to the two. “Clear out the tech below. Every piece of Phase 2 on a truck and gone.”

They both saluted and walked off to collect some of the unoccupied officers. Fury removed his hat and went to catch Selvig. “Talk to me, Doctor. Is there anything we know for certain?”

Selvig looked startled at the intrusion, but quickly regained his composure. “Director. Inbound aircraft from Europe, something is definitely heading out way.”

Fury followed him to the back of the room where a global map had been set up, different coloured pieces arranged on different landmasses, representing factories, armies, anything they needed to monitor. “Any clues as to what’s heading our way?”

Selvig shrugged helplessly. “All we know is some form of aircraft. It could be transporting goods or weapons or even coming to bomb us. Definitely advanced technology though, if it’s able to cross the Atlantic.”

“Get me more.”

“Yes sir.”

“Where's Agent Barton?”

Selvig rolled his eyes. “Up in his nest, as usual.”

Fury looked above to where a man was sitting on a beam, a rifle across his knees as he scanned the room below. He waved to catch the man’s attention, then gestured for him to come down. Barton nodded and grabbed hold of a rope he had tied next to himself, sliding down it to the floor, his heavy boots thudding as he landed. He was dressed in the dull khaki of a military uniform, and seemed out of place among the suits and shirts of the people around him.

As he drew closer Fury began to sign at him. _I gave you this detail so you could keep a close eye on things._

Barton’s face remained impassive as he returned the sign language. _I can see better from a distance._

_What have you seen?_

Barton scanned the room before answering, even though Fury had made sure none of the other operatives could understand the language he used. _No one come or gone. All clean._

  1. Fury turned back to Selvig. “Where exactly will the plane first make landfall?”



Selvig checked the paper in his hand. “On current trajectory… About a mile outside Rockport.”

Fury nodded and signalled to Barton _Get ten men. We need to get to Rockport._

/|\

The small convoy of jeeps rolled to the coordinates Selvig had pointed out. Fury was in the passenger seat of the first car as Barton drove. Three other men were with them in the car, dressed in military fatigues and armed with rifles and Thompson submachine guns. Fury still wore his suit, but he had a shotgun across his lap as well.

They came to a stop next to a field freshly ploughed and ready for seeding. The agents piled out, followed by Fury, Barton right at his side. They spread out across the field, guns at the ready as they assumed their positions. Barton took position alongside the jeeps, armed with his Springfield rifle. He was down on one knee, eye to the scope as he surveyed the field, his finger resting lightly on the stock.

Fury went right down the middle as the agents fanned out on either side of him. He alternated between checking the sky and his pocket watch as the time ticked closer and closer to Selvig’s estimation of the arrival time. He came to a rest in the centre of the field, shotgun at the ready as he scanned the sky. For several long tense moments they all stood frozen, like toy soldiers frozen on a field.

The roar of an engine split the silence of the night, and out of the clouds a dark shape appeared, thick and heavy, a dark grey tube that was barely even a shadow against the darkness of the night sky. Every one of the agents looked to Fury for instruction but he simply stood there, implacable as an oak, and watched the plane approach closer overhead.

It passed right over them, but nothing happened. A moment later it circled in the sky and returned back the way it had come, disappearing back into the clouds as quickly as it had come. Once more the agents looked to their leader, but Fury was still watching the sky, and his patience was rewarded a moment later when a faint white smudge appeared, descending rapidly. It came right for them, the barest touch of wind pushing it closer to the field, a perfect target.

Finally Fury moved, looking behind to Barton and shaking his head once. The sniper nodded and shouldered his rifle, moving forwards quickly and drawing a pistol from his hip instead. The other men took the signal, standing as well and moving to cover the shape as it came close enough to reveal a human figure beneath the white circle of a parachute. It made no effort to change trajectory, almost seeming to aim for the circle of men that waited to greet it.

The instant the man’s feet touched the ground the agents were on him, grabbing him and forcing him to the floor. One agent produced handcuffs and secured his arms as another placed a black bag over his head. In seconds he was fully restrained, but Fury still wasn’t taking chances. He nodded to the men and they slammed the butts of their rifles into the man’s back and chest until he collapsed to the floor. Gripping him under the shoulders they dragged the prone form to the jeep and bundled him into the back.

Barton looked to Fury before heading back and Fury signalled briefly. _Stay alert._

/|\

With a nod from Fury Barton ripped the bag off the hostage’s head.

The face that was revealed was pale and thin, with pronounced cheekbones and a narrow chin. The mouth was twisted into an open mouthed grin that was anything but good natured. His dark hair was ruffled by the bag and his jump and he wore dark grey military combat clothes. The moment the bag was taken away he scanned the room and finally settled on Fury, sitting across the desk from him.

“Ah.” His face settled into a casual disdain and he relaxed into the chair, lounging despite the handcuffs binding him to it. “Die Amerikaner.”

“You wanna run that by me again?”

“That’s what they call you.” His accent was cultured. Possibly British, but with a hint of something foreign. Fury could identify nearly any accent on the planet within a few words, but he had trouble with this one. The man was impossible to place, no features to suggest a country of origin, no uniform, and now no voice.

“Who calls me that?”

“The men who employ me.”

“And who might they be.”

“Oh you’ll meet them soon enough. I wouldn’t worry about them now.”

“And who should I be worrying about?”

The dark haired man smirked and dropped his head down, shaking it a little before looking back up. “Me.”

“And just who might you be?”

The man pressed his tongue into the inside of his lower lip, exploring the cut he had received from an agent’s ring. “I am Loki. And I am burdened with glorious purpose.”

“Loki?” Selvig was stood behind him, but now moved forwards into the light. “Brother of Thor.”

For the first time Loki displayed an emotion besides arrogance, his lips twisting into a snarl as he turned back to see the doctor.

“You’ve already caused us a lot of grief.” Fury said, leaning back in his chair and examining the prisoner. “Breaking into American airspace, an illegal drop onto our territory. Your clothes suggest some sort of military involvement.” He leaned forwards again and fixed Loki with a hard glare. “This doesn’t have to get any worse though.

“Of course it does. I've come too far for anything else.”

“To my knowledge the government of the United States of America has no quarrel with the people of Europe.”

Loki had recovered his good humour as he turned back to meet Fury’s gaze. “An ant has no quarrel with a boot.”

“You planning to step on us?”

Loki chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “You misunderstand Major. I come with glad tidings.” The smile disappeared. “Of a world made free.”

“Free from what?”

“Freedom. Freedom is life's great lie.” He looked back again to where Selvig and Barton were standing. “Once you accept that in your heart you will know peace.”

Fury stood and walked round the table. “You say peace, I kind of think you mean the other thing.”

Loki only grinned and shook his head. “What time is it Major?”

“Why does it matter?” Fury sat down on the edge of the desk and leaned in close. “It’s not like you’ll be seeing daylight for a long time.”

“It matters because soon enough the possessions your agents took from me are going to cause you quite a lot of problems.”

Barton was already heading for the door when an explosion rippled through the building, strong enough to knock all of them to the floor. As Fury struggled to his feet he saw Loki rolling out of the shattered chair, the handcuffs already off his wrists as well. Before anyone else could move he had ripped off his belt and rolled over to straddle Barton, opening the buckle to reveal a miniature needle which he jammed into Barton’s chest.

“What-“

“Sodium thiopental.” Loki looked up with his insane grin back in place.

Fury got a hand to the desk and forced himself up, staggering back against the wall. “That’s not possible.”

“Why Major Fury.” Loki stood and walked over to where Selvig was trying to stagger back to his feet. “Your own scientists have been working on it, though I understand less successfully.” He knelt and jammed the needle into Selvig’s chest as well. “It is amazing what you can do with the proper motivation.”

“So what do you plan to do now? Destroy one SHIELD Installation?”

“SHIELD?” Loki smiled. “Oh I like that. Very clever.”

“We have an army of operatives who will stop whatever you’re planning.”

“I doubt that.”

Barton was on his feet now, speaking in a flat tone. “Sir, Director Fury is stalling. This place is about to blow. He means to bury us.”

“Like The Pharaohs of old.” Fury moved his hand away from the wall and the emergency switch he had activated.

“It’s a two minute time,” Selvig said as he got to his feet.

Loki grimaced, his chin jutting forwards. “Drop him. Then take me to Phase 2.”

Barton snapped his sidearm up and put a bullet into Fury, dropping him to the floor. The three men exited, Barton in the lead, Selvig trailing behind, paying no notice to the motionless body on the floor.

Outside agents were rushing past, including the man in the grey suit. They were heading in the direction of the vehicle pool, where a dozen jeeps were being loaded with heavy wooden boxes. Baron gestured to one of them, alerting the agent in charge of loading it. _Need these vehicles._

As they were climbing in the woman Fury had spoken with earlier stepped up, frowning as she saw Loki climbing into the covered trailer. She tapped Barton on the shoulder and signalled. _Who's that?_

_He didn't tell me._

She stepped back to let Selvig get in, but at that second a radio nearby buzzed, Fury’s voice, pained.

“Hill, do you copy? Barton has turned.”

Before the message was even finished Barton snapped up his pistol and fired two shots, but Hill was no longer there. Despite the dress and the heels she had been wearing she had dived for cover behind another packing crate. She reached beneath her skirt and drew a snub nose revolver, quickly leaning out and firing two shots which punched holes through the canvas covering the truck bed. Loki ducked but Barton was already in the driver’s seat and tearing away out of the garage.

A warning alarm began to sound through the base and the agents began to flee. The rest of the jeeps pulled out with as many men and boxes crammed onto them as they could manage. As they drove out Hill pulled a pocket knife and slit the side of her dress to the hip before finding a motorcycle and kick-starting it. She peeled out of the garage and followed the truck Barton had taken, gunning the engine hard.

She had barely made it twenty feet when a massive explosion ripped the building apart behind her. The bike swerved wildly and she was thrown clear into a patch of long grass beside the road, rolling several times before she came to a stop. Debris rained down around her and she covered her head with her arms as it set the grass ablaze.

Several long moments passed before she felt safe to raise her head, Several jeeps were disappearing into the darkness ahead of her while behind the space where the building had been was now a smouldering crater. She stood and marched quickly back to find a small group of men standing by the debris. One was the man in the grey suit, now stained with soot. As he nodded to Hill another man joined them. Fury’s suit was missing an arm and he had a deep cut on his head, but his face showed only determination.

“Report.”

“A lot of men still under,” the man in the suit said. “Don't know how many survivors.”

Fury nodded, turning to the rubble that had once been a base. “Hill, sound the general call, I want every living soul not working rescue looking for that briefcase.”

She saluted. “Roger that.” As she turned to leave she overheard the brief exchange between Fury and the man in the grey suit.

“Coulson, get back to base. This is a Level Seven. As of right now, we are at war.”

“What do we do sir?”

“Get me the dossiers. We have some calls to make.”


	2. Assemble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Avengers Assemble

**Chapter 1: Assemble**

 

The harsh smack of a hand hitting flesh echoed through the warehouse.

It was midnight, and in a darkened room four men gathered around a woman tied to a chair. The woman was wearing an elegant black cocktail dress, and her hair and makeup had been artfully done before the beating she had endured. One of the men stepped forwards. He was older than the others, wearing a double breasted pin-striped suit. He brushed some imaginary dust off the fedora he carried as he walked closer to the woman.

“This is not how I wanted this evening to go.” He spoke Italian, in a deep heavy voice.

The woman in the chair forced her head up, peering at him through matted hair. “I know how you wanted this evening to go. Believe me, this is better.”

He grinned at that, but it was an ugly look on him. “Who are you working for? Lamberto, yes? Does he think we have to go through him to move our cargo?”

One of the thugs grabbed the chair she was tied to and dragged it back to the edge of the floor, holding her over a twenty foot drop straight down onto the factory floor. “I thought Salomone is in charge of the export business?” She said, panic creeping in as her feet scratched to find the floor.

“Salomone?” The gangster laughed, his men joining in. “A bagman, a front. Your outdated information betrays you.” He gestured for the thug to bring her chair back, still chuckling. “The famous Black Widow, and she turns out to be simply another pretty face.”

She was still breathing heavily, head twitching like a frightened rabbit. “You really think I’m pretty?”

The leader walked over to a table nearby that had several tools spread out on it. “Tell Lamberto we don’t need him to move the booze.” He discarded a wicked looking pair of shears and started checking the hammers. “Tell him he’s out.” He finally settled on a pair of pliers. “Well…” As he turned back he switched briefly to heavily accented English. “You may have to write it down.”

Just at that moment a ringing phone interrupted the scene. It was so absurd that for a moment they all just stared at it. Then one of the thugs walked over and picked it up. “Who is this?”

A second later he held the phone out to his boss, confusion plain on his face. “It’s for her.”

The gangster grabbed the phone and held it to his face. “Now you listen carefully-“

“You’re at 156 Northern Jefferson, third floor. A box of explosives has just been placed downstairs. Put the woman on the phone, or I will blow up the block before you can make the lobby.” The voice was calm and collected, and his words didn’t sound like a threat. They sounded like a personal promise. The gangster nodded, his bluster vanishing, and waved for them to drag her chair over to the phone.

The receiver was shoved hard against her ear and she glared at the thug holding it. “What?”

“We need you to come in.”

“Are you joking sir?” The faint Italian accent she had had all night suddenly vanished. “I'm working!”

“This takes precedence.”

“I'm in the middle of an interrogation and this goof is giving me everything.”

“I didn't…” He was silenced with another glare, finishing the rest to his men. “Give… everything.”

Widow was ignoring him, still talking to the man on the phone. “Look, you can't pull me out of this right now.”

“Natasha.” With the use of her real name she frowned deeply. “Barton's been compromised.”

“Let me put you on hold.”

The thug holding the receiver took it away, but before he could place it back on the cradle she kicked out hard, catching his knee and breaking it. He yelled and dropped to the floor as she tipped the chair sideways, landing hard on the concrete. The flimsy wood shattered and she rolled free, the rope binding her hands already long undone. She rolled over the man on the ground, ignoring his pained screaming, and reached under his jacket to grab a pistol from his shoulder holster.

The other men were slow to respond, and she shot one of them in the chest before he could even move. The second two both drew revolvers from their waistbands and fired, missing completely. Natasha took careful aim and shot the second bodyguard in the neck. He dropped to the floor trying to staunch the blood flow. The leader of the gangsters tried to run but she put a bullet in the back of his kneecap. He went down screaming.

She ignored the whimpers and groans around her, grabbing the phone again. “Where's Barton now?”

“We don't know.”

“But he's alive?”

“We think so. I'll brief you on everything when you get back. But first, we need you to talk to the big guy.”

She sighed, taking the pistol apart and throwing the spare bullets down the hole in the middle of the room. “Coulson, you know that Stark trusts me about as far as he can throw me.”

“No, I've got Stark.” She would almost have believed Coulson was smiling. “You get the big guy.”

She replaced the receiver slowly. Looking around the room she allowed herself one unprofessional outburst. “Mein Gott.”

/|\

On the Mexican border a train rumbled past a broken down shack. A young Mexican girl waited for it to pass before sprinting across the track and heading for the shack. In her fist was clutched a wad of bank notes covered in dust and grime. Her skin was dark, her dress ratty, her feet bare and her hair knotted and dirty. She looked like any other urchin.

She raced into the shack and held out the notes, chattering in rapid Spanish. An older woman turned and waved her away.

“Who are you? Get out, there is sickness here!”

The girl continued to speak, her voice high and scared. A man stepped from the back room, pulling off a blood stained apron and throwing it into a bin. He crouched down and spoke to the girl directly, low and quiet.

“Please, slow down.” His voice was kind, and his eyes were big and warm. The girl calmed quickly.

“My father.”

He nodded, looking back to the room he had just left. There was no door, and through it could be seen a couple of mattresses on the floor, currently occupied by very sick looking men. “Like them?”

The girl nodded, holding out the wad of notes again. “Please,” she said in heavily accented English.

Doctor Bruce Banner sighed and straightened, collecting a small leather bag from the nearby table. In his heart of hearts he knew there was little he could do for the little girl’s father. Spanish Flu was fatal in nearly every case after all. But he could at least help. He followed her as she scampered out into the night, trying to keep up as she ran further outside of town.

He was the only gringo in town, and that night he was the only man in a suit as well, dishevelled and crumpled as the suit was. He kept to the shadows as they ran through the town, trying to avoid anyone who might not be too happy to see him. More than a few of the locals didn’t take too kindly to having a white American invading their town. And there was always the possibility of a Pinkerton on his trail.

They came out to the very edges of the town, where shack would have been a positive description of the dwellings people lived in. The little girl seemed entirely at home, slowing a little as she entered familiar territory. The shack she led him to was out of the way even by the standards of the other shacks. Right alongside the train tracks and shielded on almost every side by trees.

He followed her through the front door only to find that she was crawling rapidly out through a small hole in the opposite side of the house. There was nothing inside but a small table and a chair, a woman sitting in to with her back to him.

He shook his head, straightening and stepping fully inside, closing the door behind him. “Guess I should have got paid up front.”

“You know.” Her voice had no discernible accent. And despite sticking out even more than Banner in the surroundings she was entirely calm. “For a man who claimed he was avoiding violence, you picked a hell of a place to settle.” She turned to reveal pale skin artistically framed by dark red hair. He couldn’t tell if it was natural, but he suspected not.

“I never said I was avoiding violence.”

“Then what is it?”

He smiled, but it looked more like a grimace. “You brought me to the edge of the city, smart.” He moved to the other side of the table from her. “I uh...assume the whole place is surrounded?”

The woman smiled at him. “Just you and me.”

He nodded, taking in the elegant black cocktail dress she was wearing, a shawl across her shoulders and a small handbag on her left arm. If he had any reaction to her beauty it was well hidden. “Your actress buddy.” He nodded to the hole she had crawled through. “Is she a spy too?”

The woman nodded once.

“Do they start them that young?”

“I did.”

“So who are you?” He was rubbing the strap of his bag.

“Natasha Romanoff.”

“Are you here to kill me, Miss Romanoff?” His grip tightened on the bag. “Because that's not gonna work out for everyone.”

“No. No. Of course not.” She stood and smiled, a brilliant flash of white teeth. “I'm here on behalf of SHIELD.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and his jaw jumped as his teeth gritted. “SHIELD. How did they find me?”

“We never lost you, Doctor. We've kept our distance, even helped keep some other interested parties off your scent.”

“That would explain not seeing the Pinks. Why?”

“Major Fury seems to trust you. But now I need you to come in.”

He had stopped fidgeting, and somehow the calm seemed to spook her more. “What if I say no?”

“I'll persuade you.”

His smile told her that she would be unwise to try. “And what trouble do you expect me to get into.”

She took a file from her bag and laid it out on the table. He flipped it open.

“This is-“

“I know what this is.” His tone kept her quiet as he flipped over the picture.

The silence dragged on until it became deeply uncomfortable. Finally she spoke again.

“Doctor, we're facing a potential global catastrophe.”

“Well, those I actively try to avoid.” His good humour had only appeared to return. The stress was plainly evident in the deep lines around his eyes. “What exactly does Fury want me to do? Make him some more?”

“He wants you to find it. It's been taken. There's no one that knows this compound like you do.” She shrugged. “If there was, that's where I'd be.”

“So Fury isn't after the monster?”

“Not that he's told me.”

“And he tells you everything?”

“Talk to Fury, he needs you on this.”

“He needs my knowledge?”

“No one’s going to ask you to-“

He slammed his bag down hard on the desk, pulling the catch open. “Stop lying to me!”

She moved like lightning, a gun appearing from her purse and training on his head in a split second. Her hands shook slightly but the muzzle of the gun didn’t waver.

Banner let go of the bag and stepped back, keeping his palms open and facing her. “I'm sorry, that was mean.” His grin was firmly back in place, but she didn’t lower the gun. He could see fear in her eyes. “I just wanted to see what you'd do.” He slowly opened the bag to show nothing but medical supplies inside. “Why don't we do this the easy way, where you don't use that, and the agents outside don't make a mess? Okay? Natasha?”

She slowly returned the pistol to her bag, drawing out a short wave radio. “Stand down. We're good here.”

From outside they heard the sounds of guns being uncocked. Banner cast a glance to the front door, then back to Natasha. “Just you and me?”

/|\

The bag thumped rhythmically with the repeated impacts of fists. The gym was empty of all but one man, tall, broad in the shoulder and narrow at the hip. His blond hair was sweat soaked as he pounded again and again at the heavy bag. It rattled on its chain again and again as the tempo increased, the force of the punches heightening as the man attacked it with everything he had.

He had short blonde hair, cut military style, and a well-defined jaw. His eyes were the greying blue of the sea in a storm, and as he increased his speed and rhythm again lines crept in at the edges. Everything in his face, his stance, his motions, his eyes, all suggested tension, pain concealed deep beneath the surface.

At last his punches abated and he leaned against the bag, breathing heavily. With a final punch he stepped back and headed for his gym bag.

“Trouble sleeping Captain?”

He looked up to see Fury standing in the door of the gym. He wore a midnight blue suit with a dark tan overcoat, and was once more toying with his hat.

The captain started to unwind the tape from his fingers. “I slept for ten years, sir. I think I've had my fill.”

Fury strolled into the room, examining the bag. “Then you should be out. Celebrating, seeing the world.”

The captain shrugged, stuffing shirts into the bag and lifting it onto his shoulder. “I went under, the world was at war. I wake up, they say we won.” He took a deep breath and looked around the gym as well. “They didn't say what we lost.”

“We've made some mistakes. Some very recently.”

“You here with a mission, sir?”

“I am.”

“Trying to get me back in the world?”

Fury produced a file from under his coat. “Trying to save it.”

Opening the file revealed a small picture of a metal ball. “I remember this sir.”

“In 1913 a scientist and doctor by the name of Bruce Banner invented a new type of explosive. It was more powerful than dynamite and TNT, it was stable enough to be transported without fear of detonation, and could be used in our new line of explosive shells. He had even perfected a liquid form which was used in our flamethrowers.”

“Sounds like an upstanding man.”

“Banner didn’t agree with the way the United States government made use of his invention. He had imagined it would be used for building and mining purposes, and in stable liquid form could even serve as a new form of fuel he termed ‘rocket fuel.’ He envisaged a bold new frontier of scientific advancement.”

“But you continued to work on it?”

“Development was handed to my department, where I authorised testing into its capacities as fuel. We had almost the entire world stockpile.” Fury turned back to look at the captain, lighting a cigarette. “Unfortunately someone decided to take it from us.”

“Who?”

“He's called Loki.” Fury puffed out a cloud of smoke. “He's not from around here.”

The captain nodded, setting the file down and picking up his gym bag again.

“There's a lot I’ll need to know.”

“Agreed.” Fury crushed out his cigarette and followed the captain out. “The world has gotten even stranger than you already know Rogers.”

“At this point, I doubt anything would surprise me.”

“Five bucks says you're wrong.”

At the top of the stairs Fury held open the door to reveal the same black car he had driven in Massachusetts. “There's a debriefing package waiting for you. But your personal experience with the explosive will of course make any insights you have useful.”

Rogers stepped into the car and rested his bag on his knees. “What happened to Banner?”

“He went AWOL during the war. We haven’t seen him since.”

“Maybe he had the right idea.”

/|\

Hidden deep in the bowels of a building a man wrestled a wrench into place. From outside the wall a woman’s voice shouted through to him. “We're ready to go on this end.”

The man shoved the wrench around a quarter turn, connecting a fuel line. It started to rumble as fuel poured through. “Are we off the grid?” he shouted over the racket.

“Stark Towers is about to become self-sufficient.”

“Light her up.”

There was a deeper rumble from inside the building and the man started to wriggle his way out of his confined position. Outside he walked directly to a window and looked out to see a big neon sign flicker to life. Stretching across the front of the office building it spelled out ‘Stark.’

A blonde woman came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “How does it look?”

“Like Christmas, but with more...me.” He leaned his head back to rest on her shoulder. She was slightly taller than him, willowy and beautiful. He was stocky by comparison, well built and with a neat moustache.

“You have to go wider on the public awareness campaign,” she said, stepping back and heading over for the desk in the middle of the room. “You need to talk to the press.”

He nodded and came over as she carried on talking, flipping through piles of papers. “I can do some more tomorrow; I'm working on the zoning for the next billboards.”

“Pepper, you're killing me. Remember? Enjoy the moment?”

She looked up and smiled. “I remember.”

As she walked back round the desk towards his open arms a man appeared in the doorway, clad in a formal dinner jacket and waistcoat, his blonde hair neatly combed down as he snapped his heels together. “Sir, Agent Coulson of SHIELD is on the telephone for you.”

Stark kissed Pepper on the cheek and spun her round so they both faced the butler. “I'm not in.” He kissed her on the back of the neck, giving his dogsbody a pointed look. “I'm actually out.”

“Sir, I'm afraid he's insisting.”

“Hang up the phone Jarvis. I got a date.”

Jarvis nodded smartly and exited, leaving the two to kiss again as Stark led the way over to a large leather couch. “So how does it feel to be a genius?”

Pepper allowed herself to be drawn down onto the sofa, where Stark poured her a glass of champagne. “Well, ha, I really wouldn't know now, would I?”

“What do you mean? All this,” he gestured at their opulent surroundings. A massive crystal chandelier hung above them, and everywhere there was rich mahogany and gold inlay. “Came from you.”

She shook her head. “No. All this.” She waved at the room as well, then pointed to a metal box in the corner of the room. “Came from that.”

“Give yourself some credit, please. Stark Tower is your baby. Give yourself, twelve percent of the credit.”

She pushed away from him and raised an eyebrow. “Twelve percent?”

He shrugged. “An argument can be made for fifteen.”

She put her champagne down. “Twelve percent for my baby?”

“Well, I did do all the heavy lifting.” She stood and headed back for the desk as he chased after her. “Literally, I lifted the heavy things. And sorry, but the security snafu? That was on you.”

She started to sift through the papers again. “You mean our elevator?”

“It was teeming with sweaty workmen.” He rested against the desk as she found the file she was looking for and started to read it, ignoring him. “I'm going to pay for that comment about percentages in some subtle way later on, aren't I?”

“Not gonna be that subtle.”

“I'll tell you what.” He covered the paper with his hand. “Next building is gonna say 'Potts' on the tower.”

She looked up. “On the lease.”

He pulled his hand back and hissed through his teeth. “Call your mom, can you stay over?”

Jarvis was at the door once more. “Sir, Agent Coulson. I'm afraid-“

“Jarvis, what did I just-“

“Stark, we need to talk.” The grey suited man had emerged from behind Jarvis, and he didn’t look amused.

“Security breach,” Stark said immediately, pointing to Pepper. “That's on you.”

“Mr Stark.”

Pepper was standing and smiling as she came round to give Coulson a brief hug. “Phil! It’s great to see you again.

Stark looked utterly nonplussed at the events unfolding in his office. “Phil?”

Coulson and Pepper were still talking. “I can't stay.”

“His first name is Agent,” Stark protested lamely.

“Come on in, we're celebrating.”

“Which is why he can't stay.” Stark came to stand next to Pepper, putting a hand around her waist.

Coulson produced a manila wallet from behind his back and held it out.

“ I don't like being handed things”

“That's alright, cause I love to be handed things.” Pepper took the folder and handed Coulson her glass of champagne before giving the folder to Stark in exchange for his champagne.

“Official consulting hours are between eight and five every other Thursday.” Stark headed back to the desk, opening the file and pulling out a blurry photograph or a military unit.

“This isn't a consultation.”

“Is this about the Avengers?” Pepper coughed and looked away as Coulson gave her a raised eyebrow of his own. “Which I...I know nothing about.”

“The Avengers Initiative was scrapped, I thought,” Stark said from the desk. “And I didn't even qualify.”

They were all heading for the desk now as he continued to take out photographs, including one of a man in a labcoat and a beaming smile as he presented a small vial. “I didn't know that either,” Pepper said.

“Yeah, apparently I'm volatile, self-obsessed, don't play well with others.”

“That I did know.”

Coulson smiled. “This isn't about personality profiles anymore.”

“You know, I thought we were having a moment Miss Potts.”

She finished her drink and put the glass on the desk in front of him. “I was having twelve percent of a moment.” She walked round the desk to look at the file with him, leaning close to whisper in his ear. “This seems so serious, Phil's pretty shaken.”

“Why is he Phil?”

“What is all this?”

“This is uh...” He took out an image of a hollowed out shell of a building. “This…” Another picture, this one of a city street that had been almost entirely flattened by an explosion.

“I'm going to take the flight to D.C. tonight.”

He looked up sharply. “Tomorrow.”

“You have work.” There were at least a hundred more photos in the file. “You have a lot of work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Natasha is now a German double agent, not Russian. Russia weren't exactly allies in the 1920s, but they also weren't the absolute enemy in the way that Germany was. Here she's also not interested in the illegal arms trade, but in the Italian mob moving illicit alcohol. This whole setting is obviously sometime during Prohibition, meaning that in this instance SHIELD was perhaps supposed to be an agency more like the proto-FBI or the Bureau of Prohibition (famous for being the home of the Untouchables.) I couldn't think of a way to have the F-22 bit so instead just imagine one of the SHIELD agents dumped a box of explosives in the lobby before running.
> 
> Obviously the biggest change is in Bruce Banner, who is not going to turn into an enormous green rage monster when he's stressed. I have decided instead to give him a backstory similar to Alfred Nobel, the inventor of dynamite in 1867 and founder of the Nobel Prize in 1895. So for this story Banner invented a new type of explosive which did all of the nifty things Fury says it does here. However as a medical doctor he was horrified when he saw his invention being put to destructive use in the First World War, which caused him to go AWOL and flee to Mexico to do good works to try and redeem himself. This also actually ties in to Cap's backstory. He was put into a coma for ten years sometime in 1917/18 until 1927/28, which funnily enough would be about when the Untouchables came into being (1929) and the real fight against the Prohibition era gangsters came into effect (obviously not helped by the Depression hitting in 1929) This story is then set sometime in 1927-28, pre-Depression, which is why Stark can still be building his big old tower.
> 
> Final change is to Stark, who did not fight in the war and was not injured by a shrapnel attack. Instead he was injured in a chemical weapons attack while selling arms, which now necessitates his use of an iron lung on a regular basis to keep his breathing regulated. He doesn't need to wear it all the time, but he would need to wear it if he was going to exert himself in almost any way. The innovative genius part comes from the fact that he managed to make the iron lung portable. I'll go into more detail later but basically he has a metal backpack that holds the motor, pumps and valves, tubes which lead over the shoulders to what is basically a gas mask. The miniaturisation (relatively speaking) of the motor is what helped Stark towers becomes self-sufficient energywise. So it all sort of ties into the MCU canon while still being period appropriate (first medical use of a modern iron lung was believed to be about 1928), plus actually makes the 'Iron Man' nickname entirely appropriate. Also also he'd look like some sort of badass dieselpunk hero with a metal breastplate and awesome gas mask design.
> 
> I have had to do so much research into 1920s era technology just to see what was and wasn't possible at all back in those days.
> 
> And of course this all necessitated a couple of changes to the dialogue to make it all gel but hopefully it's all still feeling like the movie, just in a different time period.

**Author's Note:**

> AN:- I did a lot of work trying to make things authentic to the period. There will be no supernatural or science fiction elements. However there will still by necessity be certain technologies not available in 1920 (or even not available now) although in most cases it will period authentic technology that is just more powerful or more refined than how it actually would have been.
> 
> Prime examples: The plane which can apparently manage transatlantic flight. Sodium thiopental (sodium pentathol) being capable of mind control. Needed to be done obviously so I could have the European Loki arrive unexpectedly on American shores, and so he could brainwash Clint.
> 
> Mostly the plot and much of the dialogue is lifted from the Avengers movie. I have made some additions to make it better fit the time period or to account for slight changes I have made to the exact flow of the narrative.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this. I love fiction from this period and I love the Avengers, so I hope I can do this story justice.


End file.
